


Tousled Bird

by Kare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:13:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kare/pseuds/Kare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Falls... it's John turn to return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tousled Bird

_John? John! Don’t look!_  
  
He never figured who had told him that and when. Or why he still sometimes heard it like an echo, bouncing off the bones in his head. But he had looked. Always.  
  
Not the way _he_ used to look, not to observe, to see things that others would probably not even guess. But John always looked… at fist fights in school, at the medical training videos or his first corpse… never flinching… then came Kandahar and his nightmares… which used to be about seeing a Jezail bullet coming at his shoulder, and now… they were about a falling shadow in the middle of a London street.  
  
And still John _saw_.  
  
His main problem these days was something else.  
  
  
  
“Hey, this looks good on you.” Sarah smiled, trying to sound reassuring. “Is this new?”  
  
John’s answer was a bemused smile.

*

  
“Hey, Molly, nice hair. Looks really good on you.”  
  
“John, you already said that the day before yesterday.” There was a slight blush on her cheeks, though.  
  
“Well, it _still_ looks good on you,” he insisted, knowing that she didn’t get enough compliments to begin with.

*

  
“Mrs. Hudson? Have I left my cup downstairs again?”  
  
“I wouldn’t know, I’m not your housekeeper, honey. I can look, but the last two times you were looking for it you found it in your sink…”  
  
  
  
No one cared that he always knew the exact amount of dust which was currently gathered on the Petri dishes on the kitchen table. Or that he could always locate the skull on the first try, even with his eyes closed and the lights off. Or that he still actually saw where three bullets once had ruined the wallpaper.  
  
People only ever cared that hardly anything new would stick in his brain.  
  
And since “friends” sometimes believe that the best thing they could do for you was to tell the world that maybe you were just putting on a brave front... Well, his therapist had gotten wind of his little problem… let’s just say that it had not been a very pleasant conversation. Though it actually stuck… probably because for the first time in a long while John had to consider drastic measures, or else he would… could not… for a moment he wondered if never being allowed to work as a doctor again… if that really would be that bad. And in one of those moments that had been rare as of late he understood, that yes, it would be bad.  
  
The first problem was about money. Then again, most problems were.  
  
Without money he would not be able to afford the flat on his own anymore.  
  
And the idea of losing the flat… well, John’s room had changed over time. But the rest? Who would… could… No, he would have to keep it.  
  
And he would have to try to make enough money to afford the flat and enough food to stay fit enough, to… well, he would just have to come up with something.

* * *

  
It doesn’t really matter how you define yourself. Sometimes you just fall back on the most obvious answers.  
  
So John, in the middle of an all female “university study group” that was rapidly turning into a drinking contest? Well, he used his Britishness as an excuse to buy a round for the whole table.

And he did so every other Wednesday. At least if he could make it.

Usually he did.  
  
And while he might acknowledge that his social life had become a lot more… stable, he really didn’t want to ponder the reason. So, instead he stared at his pint, trying to catch bits and pieces of - at least - three simultaneous conversations.  
  
Three girls in their early 20s were comparing childhood memories. The Indian girl, who said that she fell into the a pool at a temple as a child and had to be rescued by the groundkeeper, most definitely took the cake. Followed by the one who got attacked by a swan. And there still was the story how one had finally learned how to catch herself when she... stumbled... even if it the only result had been a scrapped nose instead of a bloodied knee.  
  
Another two were discussing a gig to which they had tried to invite John. He had declined, but was still trying to figure out what he had missed.  
  
The two very drunk girls that finally started dissecting their gay love life? Had once again attracted the same two regulars to within hearing distance. This whole act was actually starting to get old.  
  
And another… probably four… were outside smoking, discussing the rather colourful love life of a mutual acquaintance.  
  
For a moment John tried to remember if he had been like that in his early 20s. He probably had been. Then again: wasn’t most of life about sex, food and money? The labels changed the older you got, but…  
  
John sighed, trying to focus on more international childhood stories.

* * *

  
“How was your week?”  
  
A standard session.  
  
John was supposed to talk and he did.  
  
He called casual acquaintances ‘friends’ - partly because he knew more private details about them than he had about some of his actual friends, and partly because… well, when talking to a therapist, it just sounded better.  
  
He talked about the concert, omitting that he had not seen it.  
  
He recycled some of the childhood stories he had heard, added a few of his and Harry’s and… in a well rehearsed and neutral way he invented a childhood story about a fictional man named Sherlock, who once fell into a pool as a child and had to be rescued by the groundkeeper.  
  
“See, some things we just can’t influence or change.”  
  
John knew that she was right and said nothing.  
  
John knew that it wasn’t a professional statement to make and said nothing.  
  
John knew that he would get into serious trouble if she called him out on his bluff and still said nothing.  
  
John also knew that if he managed to breathe normally, look normal, maybe even smile a little, just pretend that this was… real, his therapist would finally sign that frigging paper. The one that would permanently declare him fit for work. The one that would allow him to bury himself in so much work that it might fill most of his waking moments. The one that would allow him to make enough money to keep the flat, just as it was. And maybe he would also escape another discussion of drugs that ‘might help to improve his mood’.

* * *

  
  
It was three days later, when at least a very small part of him was ready to admit that this, all of this, had been a rather stupid idea.  
  
Yes, he had needed the work. A lot. On more than one level.  
  
But this… had it always been like this?  
  
So far he had seven - maybe nine - people who had the flu and expected him to miraculously cure them. About the same number who actually could miraculously cure their ‘diseases’ by eating less and walking more, but preferred to have more physiotherapy, some pills or a blood test. And, mixed in-between, there were people who just wanted a day off and expected John to come up with an excuse for an otherwise healthy body.  
  
This was… dull. Stupid. Boring. And for a moment his blood turned cold, when that last word, _boring_ … it seemed to be in someone else’s voice entirely.  
  
He breathed and soldiered on and tried to convince himself that he would get used to this again, if only he tried hard enough.  
  
So he did. And it remained… just as bad.  
  
It was the same the next day, and the next… the only thing that changed was that no one objected to John being the first to come or the last to leave anymore. He was called reliable again. Basically it _meant_ him being the first to come and the last to leave, but during the holiday season that went a long way toward endearing him to everyone.  
  
And well… it also added a convenient reason why he kept forgetting things.

* * *

“John? … John! I am so glad I found you!”  
  
He recognised a swirl of black and dark blue under one of the street lamps.  
  
“I know it’s late and you probably just want to go to bed or out or whatever. Anyway, Molly was so kind as to tell me where you live. And, you see, I talked to Andrew today. Or rather, he talked to me and wouldn’t leave until I at least pretended to listen. And all the girls keep gushing about how you finally got him to accept his state. Really, John, that was a stroke of genius!”  
  
He hardly managed to open his mouth for an automatic rebuttal when she prattled on.  
  
“No John, don’t say it. I do have a good idea how you managed to do it and obviously none of us would have done _that_. It really is a stroke of genius, John, really!”  
  
At which point she slowed down ever so slightly and allowed a smile on her face that even reached her eyes.  
  
“And you see, the girls practically ordered me to come around with a little present. Since we haven’t seen you in quite some time I guess some of the girls weren’t entirely altruistic when they insisted on two tickets for one of the shows. You are quite welcome, of course, but it would be really brilliant if you could tell us about it about two weeks in advance, just so we can secure you a good seat. You can try for a last-minute ticket, if you feel like it, of course, but I really can’t promise you a good view if you do. And since I know you are quite busy at the moment I also brought you some jars of that homemade pumpkin-carrot-ginger soup you are so fond of.”  
  
After this John felt a quick peck on his cheek. She was gone about as fast as she had appeared. Feeling the weight in his hand he only managed a smile in return when she was already around the next corner.

* * *

  
When John finally opened the door to the flat he heard the short chime of his mobile, indicating a new text message. He had already guessed who it was from and what it said, so - really - there was no need to hurry. Tomorrow would be hell enough. No need to rush this.  
  
He felt another ghost of a smile pull the corners of his lips upward, before a claustrophobic feeling settled in again.  
  
His room wasn’t much better than the one he had rented ‘before Sherlock’. Well, who was he kidding? If anything, it was even worse. ‘Spartan’ was a nice way of putting it. He couldn’t stand it any other way. His soldier instincts had started to think of it as a death trap. With only one door and a single window high above the ground, what else was he supposed to call it? The more reasonable part saw it as… his own personal cave? At least something that was barely big enough for a single human being to live in.  
  
As soon as he opened the door, he went into the kitchen.  
  
He placed the shopping bags on the table and just for a moment considered warming a bit of that soup. Then again he wasn’t really hungry - again - and he knew if he took a seat by the fire he would stare at the skull for… quite some time.  
  
He registered that he probably should open the window, to let some fresh air in.  
  
The apple beside the Petri dishes – which still didn’t have any cultures on it - seemed to have started rotting. Or maybe something else, though really, there weren’t many options.  
  
It didn’t matter anyway. At least he had already made up his mind about that.  
  
Right now he was just a few steps away from a room which the outside world was rarely allowed to enter.  
  
With his hand on the handle, he stopped.  
  
Was there anything he needed to consider tonight?  
  
Money?  
  
Timetables?  
  
Lodging?  
  
Should he make some tea, eat some of the soup, stay here another thirty minutes, open that window?  
  
No, there was nothing that he couldn’t put off for another few hours.  
  
So he pressed the handle down and entered.

Maybe he had become too good at manoeuvring through his room in the dark.  
  
Three steps, table, left arm outstretched, power button, laptop starts, another two steps, BEEP, the monitor comes to life, the radiator in front of him, just checking out of habit, not really bothered, the screen finally lights up enough to illuminate his room with a soft glow, turning, his bed now to his left…  
  
The next thing he became aware of was the constant blinking of his eyes.  
  
He registered the sight before him: lean legs, a shirt covering a frame that rose and fell with the rhythm of breathing, crossed ankles and shoes, black hair, a bit too long, familiar features, maybe a little more tanned.  
  
All this registered.  
  
It even registered that the sight didn’t change with his constant blinking.  
  
There was a Sherlock-shaped illusion in his bed… sleeping in his bed!  
  
Someone else might have called for a doctor, or panicked, or…  
  
The only thing John really thought was, that this might be a once in a lifetime chance. All the stress he had put himself through might never again be released in such a way, allowing him to study a face he had never forgot, but which he never managed to recall quite this clearly.  
  
John labelled this as another one of those things to start considering in a few hours.  
  
Right now he only wanted to look his fill.  
  
So he sat down and did just that.  
  
  
  
The first thing John noticed, even before he opened his eyes, was his cramped up back.  
  
He was sitting on something hard - the floor - with his head on something soft - his bed - and… it was unreasonably warm.  
  
As he started to move, his back started to crack.  
  
His bed looked slept in, while he was kneeling on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket.  
  
He remembered the previous night and held his hand over the sheets - feeling for warmth that was not there.  
  
He understood what it meant. Knew even what it meant that he didn’t really care. He even tried to guess how long he could stay there before anyone would bother searching for him. With Mrs Hudson still around, probably less than twenty-four hours.  
  
And who knew, two cups of tea and he might even be proud of himself for getting up in less than five minutes.  
  
Still trying to straighten out his back he stepped into the kitchen, only to bump face first into something warm and solid.  
  
  
  
Now the adrenaline kicked in, first with a full body chill, then with a heat wave which spread rapidly.  
  
When his voice was finally working again the only question he could think of was:  
  
“Are you even real?”  
  
His voice sounded strange in his own ears, though it was not half as strange as the look Sherlock gave him.  
  
  
  
It took John two days to accept that Sherlock was back, in a version that could not only be seen by others, but which also sort of invited John to keep living with him right there, in Baker Street.  
  
  
  
Another two days later he wanted to eat the content of one of those soup glasses. He did not even remember why he had picked them up.  
  
It didn’t really matter as he peered into one of those pots, sullied with a strange mixture of dust and grease and other stuff he didn’t really want to think about.  
  
Just for a moment he considered aborting the plan to eat.  
  
Then he just filled the pot with water, placed a glass inside, put the whole thing on the stove and only remembered that he had planned to eat some eighty minutes later.  
  
  
  
It took another two, maybe even three days. Or rather nights.  
  
Somewhere in the distance a church bell rang in a new week and as John’s mind actually registered the sound, he finally drew in a long, shuddering breath.  
  
The cold came back, as did the heat, as well as sweat, and about four minutes later he felt as if he were resurfacing after nearly drowning.  
  
His heart was beating too fast, his lungs were burning, as were his eyes, there was a ringing in his ears and he felt as if his legs were only moments away from cramping up.  
  
It was worse than his nightmares.  
  
And he felt more alive than…  
  
Breathing hurt. Moving did too. Maybe even Sherlock dying… well ‘dying’… had not hurt that bad. John decided to not dwell too much on this question. A sense of self-preservation was finally back… while the anguish of the whole world seemed determined to howl right in his face.  
  
His feet wobbled as he made his way downstairs. It felt like it took ages. And even as his body protested his every step, his mind raced ahead of him – focussed by the pain.  
  
He needed a plan, a way to get Sherlock to tell his story again, while John was alert enough to reassess… he needed to answer that text from… almost one week ago. He needed to ask Molly who else she had told where he lived… And probably a lot more; much more. Most of all he needed to make discreet enquiries about Andrew, assessing how much trouble he had got himself into. Just who was the guy anyway? He needed to ask Mrs Hudson how the rent was going to be split, now that.... He needed to get back to work. Some shopping. An inadvertent touch to his head even got him thinking about cutting his hair to a more reasonable length. He needed another run at Sherlock’s story and maybe Greg’s opinion on this. Provided the Inspector would still talk to him. John had not been around all that much as of late. And the guest slippers at the foot of the stairs? The ones he regularly stumbled over? He really needed to drop them at Harry’s place, finally taking her up on that coffee she kept insisting on. The smell of that rotten apple still lingered in the air. He should open a window as well. And maybe this evening he should start throwing away the junk mail, checking at the same time if there were news from his job, which would make it unnecessary to worry about that or ‘Andrew’ (John had the nagging suspicion that he had ordered a young man to get a tattoo on one of his bleaker days...) And more than all those things combined, he needed to hear Sherlock’s story again, based on which he would decide how to go about the rest of it.  
  
John rounded the corner, still not sure how to get started or in which order.  
  
Sherlock just looked up, his gaze sweeping over John - taking him in in a way John was not used to anymore (and only a few moments ago he was not even aware of the fact that he had not missed it all that much) - finally locking eyes with him.  
  
“I see you’re finally back,” Sherlock stated in a dry voice.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are. My first Fanfic in the fandom. I haven't done anything of the like for ages and English is not my first language and it... probably still shows.
> 
> The wonderful SwissMiss helped me smooth out some of the grammar mistakes and what ever remains is - of cause - my fault anyway.
> 
> However, while her help made this - undoubtedly - a better work. we slightly disagreed how to go about the topic. I thought that subtility was the best way. She sort of convinced me that references were not good if they are only visible inside my head. I sort of tried to meet in the middle. Whether or not that actually worked... well, I can't really say.
> 
> Also, since I am horrible with titles, I choose a line of The Cures "Burn", that probably no one but me associates with that fic either.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and then there was Andrew. By now I honestly have no idea either. He started as a drug addict or a sufferer of depression and currently turned into a more or less underaged Hip Hop kid with diabetis. SwissMiss strongly voted to just cut him out of the story. But I have to admit that I kind of like him in that 'not really in the story' way... it made for rather pointless outtakes, like a longer and more tensed version of that converstion n the street. But the point is: I think that this John would not really fuss about not recalling a name...


End file.
